


Fight to the Finish

by mrsmcrearyphilips



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2278404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsmcrearyphilips/pseuds/mrsmcrearyphilips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Packie is expecting this wake up call to be a job offer from Trevor, but finds that he's the recipient of a mis-dialed booty call. Trevor decides that it wasn't such an inconvenience after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight to the Finish

**Author's Note:**

> I was highly disappointed to find that there are no Trevor/Packie fics around, given that if they had more time to get to know each other, they'd probably end up being best fucking friends given their similar interests. I know that Trevor doesn't have Packie's number in his contacts, but fuck the details.
> 
> This is probably going to end up a series because I've already started a second fic.
> 
> I hope there are some other like-minded individuals out there who will enjoy some Trevor/Packie smut.

Packie awoke - face sticking unpleasantly to the fabric of his beaten up couch - to the loud buzzing of his phone vibrating against the dark, dusty wood of the end table near his aching head. Blearily, he pressed thumb and forefinger to his eyes, trying to steady the jagged pain behind them, and reached blindly with his other hand to silence the call. He fumbled, unable to find the device without sparing a glance toward it, and so he shifted, raising his exhausted body enough to make a successful grab.

Finding himself more awake than he’d hoped, he wiped his face and pondered checking the number, finally beginning to wonder just who would be calling him. The remaining members of his family didn’t have his new number, and he hadn’t made many friends since moving to Los Santos; merely acquaintances and accomplices that were actually more like bosses. Nothing like what he’d had back in Liberty City.

The screen flashed the anonymous caller icon, but it was labelled “Trevor Philips” - the guy that saved him from getting hauled in when his idiot friend Dan hadn't thought through the pharmacy job they pulled a month ago. Despite the fact that Packie had worked with Trevor’s group twice now, the man had never contacted him personally; it had always been their setup guy, Lester. Hell, Trevor hadn’t even been on the last heist they’d pulled. Of course, Packie didn’t care where the work came from, as long as there was a decent payday in it for him.

Curiosity and eagerness for work piqued, he thumbed the answer button and drew the phone to his ear.

“Trev-”

“I want to do _unspeakable_ things to you,” Trevor interrupted, his voice a low, sensual growl.

Speechless, Packie faltered for a moment, trying to ignore the flip of his stomach, before responding. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Who is this?!” Trevor snarled down the line, his mood completely spun. Packie heard the crunch of metal on metal, and an angry horn blaring in the background, and Trevor’s frustrated shout at the other driver. “Fucking _PRICK_!”

“You’re the one that called _me_ , man.” Packie shouted over the quarrel on the other end. “This’s Packie.”

“Packie?” He could hear the utterly confused expression on Trevor’s face. “Generic Goon?”

Packie sighed. “I really prefer ‘Packie’.”

“What the hell kinda name is Packie, anyway?” Trevor asked, the derision in his voice grating on the younger man’s nerves.

“It’s a nickname, obviously,” The Irishman answered, gruffly; fed up with the condescending tone that Trevor had directed his way from the minute he’d met him. “Real name’s Patrick. Are we done? I’m guessing you didn’t mean to call on _me_ to get your rocks off.”

“Well, you got that right, kiddo,” Trevor answered, his voice dropping back into the lower, less bristly registers. “Must’ve tapped your name instead of Ursula’s.” He did a poor job of biting back the groan that came at the end of his explanation, and Packie’s stomach did another somersault as he imagined the scene on the other end of the line; Trevor, phone cradled between jaw and shoulder, one hand on the wheel, the other hand…

“Then I’ll let you go,” Packie huffed out, leaning back into the couch, his legs splayed wide, his own hand creeping toward the front of his worn jeans. “I’m sure you want to get… in touch with her.”

“Nng,” Trevor grunted, and Packie’s cock throbbed. “Hang on there. I’m thinkin’ we haven’t gotten to know each other _well enough_.”

Packie was at a loss with what to do or say. He barely knew this guy, and worse, they worked together. He was no stranger to having interest in his fellow criminals, but he’d never crossed that line before. Though, he reflected, it was mainly because there was no answering need in his previous co-conspirator’s eyes. Or voice.

He could hear more honking, and the screech of tires, and the quick ratchet-like sound of a parking brake before the other man spoke again.

“Hey,” Trevor huffed, “You still there, kid?”

Packie gulped, completely out of his depth. “Yeah,” he breathed, unsure how to proceed. He’d never done this before, not even with a girl, and he wasn’t exactly the talkative type when it came to getting down, anyway.

“So,” Trevor hedged, “You got your cock out, or what?”

Packie bit back a groan as he gripped himself firmly over his jeans. Apparently, dirty talk was what had been missing from his long and disappointing sex life back in LC.

“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” Trevor grumbled, disappointed. “Look, it’s easy. Just tell me what you want to do to me, or what you want me to do to you. Like, _‘I want to shove your cock down my throat and suck your balls dry'_ or something like that.”

“Fuck you,” Packie spat, “Sorry I’m not old enough to have been having phone sex since its invention, _Alexander Graham Bell_.”

“Shit,” Trevor hissed, “It’s talk like that that’s gonna make me hunt you down and ride your cock ‘til it breaks off, you brat!” His labored breathing hitched, and Packie could easily picture the other man in the throes of passion, his own hand fisted over his dick. It was enough of an image to make Packie yank his button and fly open to whip his cock out of his underpants.

“You know you won’t even make it here, you geriatric sonovabitch,” Packie taunted, smirking at the angry grunt that burst against his ear. “And don’t be so sure that you’d be the one riding cock.” There was a growl, then a shuffling in the background, and for a few moments Trevor didn’t respond, but suddenly a _ping_ from his phone alerted him to an image sent via text.

Setting the call to speaker, so that he could still hear Trevor’s stifled moans, Packie opened the image and was greeted by Trevor’s flushed, dripping cock in a tight fist, filthy grey sweatpants drawn down just enough to display his prominent member. Packie moaned aloud, hips thrusting of their own accord, his thumb pressing into the slit of his dick as he drew his hand up to the tip in an effort to restrain himself. He paused, held on the edge, trying not to tip over into oblivion and make himself a fool.

“I’d say I’m still in the prime of life, wouldn’t you?” Trevor sneered.

Packie nodded, dumbly, but punched the necessary buttons on his phone to bring up Snapmatic. A wicked thought struck him and he lifted his shirt to show off the toned planes of his abdomen as well as the beating heart of the matter. Firing off the image, he gripped himself once more, trying to slow his pace in order to keep up with the man that was nearly fifteen years older than him.

“Whaddya think of that, Pops?” Packie boasted, smirking before pulling his bottom lip between his teeth with a hum of pleasure. “Not gonna get abs like those on the all-meth diet.”

“‘Don’t need abs to drill your ass, _kid_.” Trevor challenged, his harsh breathing signaling his surge toward the finish.

“Challenge fucking accepted, you fucking _fossil_ ,” Packie prodded, tightening his grip and matching Trevor’s pace.

They beat off with no further bickering, their groans and heated breath punctuating the silence around them both, until finally Packie came undone at Trevor’s strangled groan of completion.

They both sucked in deep breaths as they came down, Packie searching the immediate area for something to clean off with and finding no other option but the white expanse of his shirtsleeves. He was glad it was laundry day.

“Well, fuck,” Trevor laughed. “Gonna have to upgrade you from Generic Goon to Booty Call, Patrick.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Packie groaned in irritation. “Me Ma’s the only one that calls me that.”

“Let’s do this again sometime. In person,” Trevor suggested. “Patrick.”

Packie growled down the line, but was met with a sudden silence and the words “Call Ended” on his phone’s screen.


End file.
